


The Gift

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Body Modification, Character Death, Cooking, Food Porn, Gen, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), post-MAG 131: Flesh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jared Hopworth lands at Hannibal’s feet. Hannibal is delighted. Will takes up carpentry.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52
Collections: The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemainofthewater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/gifts).



Hannibal took a deep breath, savoring the smell of blood before setting the jug aside. It was full of power and confusion.

It was also still warm.

Interesting.

Will had suggested making something traditional, like haggis, to celebrate the first month in their new home as well as their new guest, but Hannibal had decided on black pudding instead. It was just as typical for their new hometown and equally delicious.

Unlike haggis however, black pudding could be made to look appetizing without changing it’s very nature and being hidden under layers of decorations.

He had already finely chopped and toasted the bread earlier this morning, leaving it ample time to dry. Hannibal preferred using bread as a binder, it had a milder taste than the traditional barley and oatmeal and he wouldn’t need to use much. He had more than enough meat at his disposal, so there was no need to cut in cheap grains.

His newest guest had come with ample amount of suet and back fat, which he now cut into small cubes, precisely half a centimeter in size. There was even some suet leftover, just enough for some pastry. Perhaps tomorrow he could make steak and kidney pie.

He put the cubes in a large bowl and added some slightly browned onions. He seasoned the mixture with salt, white pepper and marjoram.

On the continent this was the only acceptable seasoning for blood sausages, but then again, he was now in Britain and making black pudding, not blood sausages, so some celery seeds, thyme and pennyroyal would round up the taste just fine. At last he added the blood-soaked bread, mixing it until it reached a paste-like consistency.

He filled the sausage stuffer with the blood mixture and then threaded it with the prepared casings.

Cleaning out those had been rather interesting, too. It was fascinating what one blessed by the Flesh could all consume without harm coming to them. Not that one should, for the Flesh was to be honored with the best ingredients one could find. Anything else was an offense to their patron.

And his new guest, for all his faults, was most certainly the best ingredient.

Hannibal carefully twisted the stuffed casings into links and tied them off. Now all that was left to do was let them simmer for 40 minutes while he prepared the rest of the meal.

It was cold outside and the first snow of the season was soon to arrive, so he had decided to serve the black pudding on a warm salad of red cabbage and apples. A perfect light winter’s lunch.

First he shredded the red cabbage and sliced two apples, before cutting the bacon into pieces.

For the dressing, he whisked some olive oil into a simple mixture of honey, wholegrain mustard and apple cider vinegar. The classics were often the best.

Then it was only a matter of frying everything. First the bacon, then the cabbage in the leftover fat. He tossed that in the dressing and put it aside.

By the time the apples were caramelized, the pudding was done as well, and he quickly cooled it in a bath of cold water. He set most of it aside for Will to hang up later and sliced the remaining one for the salad.

There was a clank from what Will had decided was to be the mud room followed by footsteps.

Ah, just in time.

Hannibal arranged the bacon-cabbage on two plates and topped it with the black pudding, carefully placing the apple slices around it and sprinkling it with some ground and toasted hazelnuts.

He nodded in approval. A worthy first meal.

Perhaps later he’d go downstairs and let his new guest have some leftovers, to show him what real food - real worship - tasted like. Not that he would understand or appreciate the gesture. He was no true servant of the Flesh. Just a selfish lout who had been lucky enough to find a book that should have stayed a historical relic.

***

Guest was maybe not the right term for what lay in the basement. Gift was probably the more appropriate term. A gift from the Flesh itself for decades of worship from a true servant.

Hannibal had become a devout follower of the Flesh one cold, Lithuanian winter, when men had come and killed his parents, and hunger had forced him to partake of his beloved sister Mischa.

It had been a blessing and a curse. The men had said that she would have died sooner or later anyway, that she was too small to survive. Hannibal had not been sure that was true, but knowing she was now truly part of him, would stay with him forever, had been reassuring.

Her flesh had given him the strength to kill the men in turn, to truly see the power of his new patron. Flesh was what humans were, and what fed them.

Over the decades his worship of the Flesh had never wavered, even as he became aware of other followers, less worthy ones. Followers who thought tossing carelessly separated, rotting body parts into a dirty pit underneath an abandoned church was a form of worship, followers who went even further and dared to call such an insult a feast, the Last Feast even.

Hannibal was glad that that had all gone up in flames.

They’d all been unworthy, and Hannibal was a firm believer in quality over quantity.

His newest guest was not. He also was no worshipper of the Flesh, not truly.

He was an abomination. Worse, he was a disgrace.

A disgrace that had finally gotten what it deserved and landed at Hannibal’s feet. Literally.

He was not quite sure how it had happened. He had been indulging Will, exploring the fields behind their house. They had been at the river bank, Will pointing out what could make a good fishing spot, when Hannibal had glimpsed a flicker from the corner of his eye, and a large figure had come falling off the bridge. He thought he might have seen a door close behind it, but it had vanished before he had gotten a proper look.

He had known immediately who it was, of course.

The Boneturner was a very recognizable figure.

Nobody else was seven feet tall and came with extra limbs. Nobody else had skin bulging and stretching in places it shouldn’t, just barely covering strangely placed bones.

Hannibal too enjoyed molding bodies to his own design, but unlike the Boneturner he had vision, created art. His creations had meaning, beauty. They told a story, conveyed messages, they were all masterpieces in their own right. Worthy of the Flesh.

The Boneturner had taken all the power at his fingertips as an avatar of the Flesh, and turned bodies, including his own, into ugly, disfigured lumps that served no function except for his own amusement. And yet he deigned to call himself an avatar.

It was shameful. He lacked respect for even his own flesh. Luckily the Flesh had interfered, handed Hannibal the opportunity to turn its avatar into something worthy.

Hannibal would not disappoint. There were so many parts of the Boneturner that he could use.

First however they’d had to transport the figure back to their basement and keep it subdued. It hadn’t been easy, but Hannibal had been a surgeon and served the Flesh longer than Jared Hopworth had been alive, so of course he’d managed.

***

Will did not disapprove of having the Boneturner living in their basement. Quite the opposite, he sometimes even seemed somewhat relieved. He had even offered to make a wooden box large enough to hold one of the Boneturner’s legs, so that they could make prosciutto.

Will liked food that could be stored for prolonged amounts of time, and if he was honest, something in Hannibal found the thought reassuring as well.

The final product was the size of an average coffin, and Hannibal smiled at the thought.

He pressed his fists down on the flesh one last time, making sure the blood was thoroughly drained. Then he proceeded to rub the severed leg in coarse salt, already imagining the taste. There was something special about the taste of the Boneturner’s flesh, like it had marinated in the power of it’s patron. Nodding in satisfaction he carried it to the box, and carefully laid it down on the inch of salt covering the bottom.

It took almost twice as much salt as he usually used to cover the entire leg, and by the time Will was done placing the wooden cover on top and weighing it down, pearls of sweat were starting to form on his forehead. Hannibal licked his lips.

This was how Jared Hopworth should honor the Flesh, by serving, not by running free and being rude.

***

Jared Hopworth’s body was a true treasure trove of ingredients. As far as Hannibal could tell, he had four hearts, two lungs and more livers than even the best trained of alcoholics could best, yet for some reason he only had one functioning brain. That clearly was a sign. 

Hannibal had, after some searching, found an unconnected second brain where his spleen should have been. Just sitting there, useless, unlike the missing spleen, which could not be found anywhere else.

More importantly however the body had another unique advantage over Hannibal’s usual sources. It stayed alive.

No matter how many organs he removed, no matter how much blood he drained, Jared Hopworth stayed warm and alive. Always fresh, always ready to provide a new cut of meat.

Or heart.

The scientist in Hannibal was almost giddy at the possibilities. Jared Hopworth would be the perfect teaching tool for Will, should he ever be interested, but the other man just shook his head and smiled indulgently, box in hand, as he left him to his devices, off to make new fishing lures.

There were four hearts on the table, two of them still beating. The smallest, child-sized one had stopped beating within minutes of removing it from the body. Hannibal hadn’t been surprised, the forearm would not have been his choice for storing an extra heart.

Neither would the femoral artery. The heart he’d found there was bigger, if not by much. It had stopped beating twenty minutes ago, when he had rinsed their chambers.

The biggest extra heart had been right behind what he assumed was Jared Hopworth’s original heart, its beats were slowly starting to weaken. He held it secure, as he sliced through its walls and heartstrings, just like the other two. It quivered, pulsed one last time, and then slackened, as he opened the chambers wide enough to be stuffed later.

He was thinking mushrooms and bacon, or maybe sausage. He still had some honey-garlic ones leftover from breakfast.

Or he could do both. It was not like he’d run out of hearts.

Yes, he’d start preparing the stuffing. He moved the largest, still beating heart to the middle of the kitchen island. He could keep an eye on it while he worked on the rest.

***

Winter was coming to an end, and Hannibal was putting the finishing touches to the dessert. Sanguinaccio Dolce on chestnut brownies. The brownies where already cooling, and Hannibal was particularly satisfied with the color today. Blood was useful that way, it not only enriched the taste of the chocolate, but also helped with color and texture.

He quickly sieved the leftover blood into a pot of milk, adding a dash of cream as well as some cinnamon and cloves. Then he stirred in the sugar and slowly started heating it up until it began to thicken. He added some ground almonds and hazelnuts and finally the chocolate, carefully stirring until it was melted.

He took a small spoon and tasted it. There it was, that special taste that was unique to the Boneturner, but the power had weakened, even the taste of confusion was barely there anymore.

Hannibal frowned. Was the benefit of an improved taste worth the risk of letting Jared Hopworth return to consciousness? The fear and confusion would no doubt be delicious, but did he want to?

Even the most special of tastes got boring after a while, and there was no going on trips while Jared Hopworth lay in their basement, unguarded. Not even over the weekend.

Tonight he’d start a new batch of bone broth, enough to last for a while, and begin setting aside blood again. He’d ask Will about getting rid of Jared Hopworth first, of course, they were a team after all, even though he was already quite certain of his answer.

And surely the Flesh, too, deserved to be worshipped in new ways.

***

Killing the Boneturner was a long and arduous process. He’d been hard to keep under, and almost impossible to kill, even for a dedicated servant of the flesh.

The solution, funnily enough had come from the elderly lady who owned the small bakery in the village. She was much too chatty for Hannibal, but she also had a great appreciation for high quality baked goods and was always exceedingly well mannered and polite.

She had gone on and on about the gardening competition that was apparently a most important yearly event in Britain, and how she would surely embarrass herself this year, for she had run out of bone meal to feed her roses and the last local butcher had retired without a successor.

Hannibal had nodded his head in shared grief and offered to get some once he had found a new, acceptable one, even if he had to drive all the way to the city to find one.

Gutting Jared Hopworth required speed and didn’t allow for any breaks. It was especially messy because the blood could not be drained and kept flowing even as the organs and bones were removed. For once even Will was glad of his clear plastic overalls, although he still rolled his eyes at Hannibal’s insistence of wearing a colorful, bespoke wool suit and silk tie underneath it.

Will cleaned the bones and put them in the oven to dry, while Hannibal cut and packaged the usable organs and meat. He’d store it all in multiple freezers just to be safe.

The rest they incinerated, Hannibal did not like the thought of that, burning flesh was a desecration and smelled most vile, but it was also necessary.

Grinding up the now dried and brittle bones was surprisingly enough the easiest, and least messy part of the ordeal.

They had also timed it just right, as their grateful not-quite neighbor assured them. The growing season began in late March, which was also the perfect time for the first feeding of the year.

As he had sworn not to share his source with any other neighbors, Hannibal decided to purchase some roses for their own garden, already looking forward to the beauty to come.

Surely that had been what the Flesh intended, when it had sent him this gift, to turn its unworthy avatar into something beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> Most recipes were inspired by Janice Poon’s cookbook _Feeding Hannibal_ , though I did add my own twist to some of them (most notably the Sanguinaccio Dolce). The recipe for the black pudding is a combination of [this](https://www.meatsandsausages.com/sausage-recipes/blood/uk/famed-bury) and my grandmother’s blood sausage recipe, the black pudding salad can be found [here](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/warm-salad-red-cabbage-black-pudding-apple).  
> Also yes, roses like to be fed bone meal. Because phosphorus.


End file.
